


A series of unrelated drabbles originally posted on Tumblr

by stillscape



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:13:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 18,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archiving stuff from Tumblr, which I find impermanent and impossible to navigate, even with tags. I didn't give an overall rating, because these vary, but probably nothing is particularly explicit. </p><p>Some of these are total AUs. Some of them are missing scenes. Some are minor canon divergences. Sometimes I just spiral out of control a little, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Times Benji Wyatt Thinks About Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood AU

 

The first time Benji Wyatt thinks about marriage, about what it is and what it means, he’s seven years old and the context is that his parents have just told him, Stephanie, and Henry that they’re getting divorced. 

"We still love you all," says his mom, patting Stephanie’s hand reassuringly. Henry’s nestled in her lap, sucking his thumb. "This is not your fault. Sometimes mommies and daddies just don’t love each other enough to stay married."

Benji’s dad grunts.

It does not fail to escape Benji that he’s the only kid who doesn’t get the reassurance of physical contact. 

He’s still pondering what it all means on Monday. For a while, the stresses of second grade—there’s a spelling test—are enough to keep his mind off the pending implosion of his family. But it all comes rushing back during lunchtime. Today is pudding pop day. Leslie Knope steals his right off his tray, and he doesn’t even try to fight her for it. 

—-

The second time Benji Wyatt thinks about marriage, really thinks about it, he’s eight years old and crouching in the backyard sandbox, trying to adjudicate at the marriage of Barbie and Ken. He’s not sure what he’s doing wrong, exactly, but Stephanie keeps yelling at him. 

"Do it yourself, then!" he shouts, flinging Ken in the dirt. Stephanie starts crying—howling, really—and then Benji’s fighting back tears himself without knowing why. They’re just  _dolls_. Stupid dolls, even. He stomps off to the treehouse, his safe place. Once he’s up the ladder, he crouches in a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, the boniest part of his chin in his left kneecap. He watches through a gap in the old wooden boards. Leslie Knope appears from around the tall hedge that separates their yards. She apparently knows how to adjudicate a stupid doll wedding. 

The divorce became official last week. 

When she’s done and Stephanie’s whisked Barbie and Ken off to their honeymoon (in the guest bedroom, he thinks), Leslie climbs into the treehouse and sits beside him. She doesn’t say anything. She just sits. 

—-

The third time Benji Wyatt thinks about marriage, he doesn’t even realize that’s what he’s thinking about. He’s nine years old and his fourth grade teacher has just gotten engaged, so yeah, it’s on his mind when they head to phys ed, but whether she’s Ms. Langman or Mrs. Callamezzo doesn’t really make a difference, aside from the fact that he’ll have to learn how to spell “Callamezzo” and remember to call her by the right name.  _  
_

Still, though, it’s weird. It’s weird that people get married. His parents’ divorce, it’s become apparent, has been a blessing for everyone involved. He can’t figure out why they got married in the first place, what it was that made the two of them think they wanted to spend their lives together. What makes _any_  man and woman love each other—and like each other—enough to want to do that? He wants to get it, but he’s just not sure he ever will. True love, the Han and Leia kind, is for the movies.

At that moment, a dodgeball collides with his testicles. 

When his hearing returns and he’s able to force his eyes back open, he realizes most of the class is laughing at him. (Andy Dwyer’s flat on his back, in fact, and Andy’s probably his very best friend.) 

 _Most_  of the class. 

Leslie Knope is squeezing his forearm. 

"I’m  _fine_ ,” he snaps, drawing the arm back. Leslie seems hurt, which…wasn’t what he meant. He manages to catch her eye and tries to say  _sorry, thank you_  without using words. The corner of her mouth twitches, and he somehow knows she understood. 

—-

The fourth time Benji Wyatt thinks about marriage, he’s ten years old and dressed in a black suit that doesn’t exactly fit, shifting uncomfortably in a church pew while a minister eulogizes Leslie’s father. The coffin is closed, but Benji knows—and he knows Leslie knows—that Mr. Knope, Leslie’s father, his neighbor, is inside it. Leslie’s father is inside a wooden box for all eternity and it’s the most incomprehensible thing Benji’s ever had to wrap his head around. 

"And now, the deceased’s daughter has asked to say a few words," says the minister. Benji, seated a few rows back, can hear Mrs. Griggs-Knope stage whisper "You don’t have to, honey," to Leslie. But Leslie shakes her mother off, her jaw set, and marches purposefully to the pulpit, which she’s too short to see all the way over. The minister finds a stepstool or something, and suddenly Leslie’s blonde hair pops up from behind the wood. 

There’s a rustling of paper, and Benji realizes the minister must not know Leslie Knope at all, if he thinks she’s going to deliver just a few words about her father. 

"Robert Knope was the best father in Pawnee," Leslie says. She’s sad, of course, but her voice is clear. "That means he was also the best father in Indiana, and all of America, and probably the whole world." 

Benji estimates she has a good thirty pages in her small, pale hands. By the time she gets to the end of them, his mother has a pile of soggy Kleenex at her feet. Benji, by now slumped sideways against the edge of the pew, realizes three things. One is that his arm is asleep, two is that death is way more terrifying than divorce ever could be, and three is that Leslie Knope might just be the bravest person he knows. 

—-

The fifth time Benji Wyatt thinks about marriage, really thinks about it, is the first time he fully imagines  _himself_  getting married. He’s eleven years old and he’s sitting in a folding lawn chair in Ramsett Park, Leslie Knope in the next chair over, both in their Sunday best as they watch Andy Dwyer’s oldest brother fidget at the end of the makeshift aisle. 

"She’s so pretty," breathes Leslie, when the bride appears. Mrs. Griggs-Knope shushes her, but Benji doesn’t think Leslie hears it. 

What seems like weeks later (but is really just a couple of hours), he’s bored out of his mind. He’s in a folding chair, but a different one. This one is in the corner of the tent where the reception is being held. There are still twenty minutes before cake. He’s been trying to hang out with Andy, but Andy keeps getting pulled away by various relatives, and why exactly do weddings have to take forever? He’s already loosened his tie; he loosened his tie the moment his mother told him he could, but now he loosens it again, because he has nothing better to do. 

Leslie Knope appears out of nowhere. 

"Hey," she says, plopping down in the chair next to him. 

"Hey," Benji echoes. 

"Wanna dance?" 

"No," he says automatically, before he sees Leslie’s face and has to correct course. "I mean, uh. Okay?" 

Leslie beams, pops up, and grabs his hand to drag him up. He looks down at  _that_ , their hands together, and swallows.

"I don’t know how to dance," he says, feeling that this isn’t his fault, that Leslie ought to expect it. He’s eleven, after all. 

"Just do what I do." 

He tries. He really tries.

Sort of. 

The song ends, and he has no idea what happens next. 

Another song starts. That’s what happens next. He dances with Leslie a second time, and then a third, and then a fourth, and possibly even a fifth. By the time the cake-cutting is announced, he’s lost count. 

"Cake." That’s Leslie Knope, dragging him towards dessert. "Shoot. I can’t see over everyone. Ben, can you see?" 

He can’t see the cake, but he can see Leslie, with her cheeks flushed pink in the spring warmth. She’s breathing a little fast and she hasn’t remembered to let go of his hand. 

Benji Wyatt never figures out exactly what makes him so brave in that moment: not immediately after, not that night when he’s at home in bed trying to sleep, not Sunday, not when he climbs on the school bus Monday morning and Leslie Knope sits next to him instead of Ann and whispers “I told Ann we were going steady” in his ear.  _  
_

In that moment, when he’s brave, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

There’s this terrible speed bump in the school parking lot, one that the bus driver always takes at speed, so that everyone bounces around and jostles against each other. Monday it’s warm from the get-go; nearly everyone is wearing shorts, and when they hit the speed bump, Leslie’s bare knee presses into his thigh. 

For one flash of a second, Benji Wyatt understands loving and liking someone enough to marry them. It’s just one flash, but it’s enough. 


	2. Leslie/Ben, post-proposal, necktie

"…Marry me?" 

"Oh, yeah!" Leslie replies, and it’s a good thirty seconds more before she realizes the ring isn’t on her finger yet. Ben seems to remember at the same time she does, and they stop kissing through mutual unspoken agreement. 

Leslie’s always put either too much emphasis or none whatsoever on engagement rings. They’re just jewelry, after all, and the diamond trade is abominable; you can’t prove how much you love someone by how much money you spend on a single ring. At the same time, though, the symbol is an important one; it’s something you wear every day for the rest of your life. She remembers her mom leaving her ring on for years after her father died, running her fingers across it on birthdays and at Christmas, a tangible reminder of his love even after he’d gone. 

And she’s never really thought about what kind of ring she would want (which is to say, she’s thought about it extensively without ever coming to any conclusions), but the moment she slips the one Ben picked out onto her finger, she knows it’s perfect. 

"It even fits," she marvels. Sometimes rings make her fingers look smaller—one of the reasons she hardly ever wears them—but this one is elegant, somehow. She looks up at Ben to see his familiar lopsided grin start to spread, and impulsively kisses into it. Before long, she’s slipping in her heels on the hardwood floor, hanging onto Ben for purchase. 

 _We’ll have to get some good area rugs_ , she thinks, and then she accidentally imagines her fiance naked on a particularly plush one, and then she realizes she just mentally referred to him as her fiance. Before she knows it, she’s pulling at his necktie, unbuttoning a button, moving her lips down to his jaw (freshly shaven,  _god_ ), his neck, his chest.

"Whoa there." It’s almost a growl, low and throaty. 

"What?"

He glances around without really taking his eyes off her. “I mean, we should…you know?”  _  
_

"Go back to my house."

He nods. “Right away.” 

Leslie nods too. “Right. Right away. No time to lose.” 

She’s just reaching up to fix his button and tie when it occurs to her that this is the Ben she knows best: a little rumpled, a little undone. So she leaves the tie and trails her fingers down the sleeves of his suit jacket, tracing his forearms. Usually he’d have his shirtsleeves rolled up too…

Ben watches his right arm, her left hand, the perfect ring, and laces their fingers together. He rubs his thumb over the band on her fourth, and kisses her once more before they rush past Martha and into the future. 


	3. Leslie/Ben, cliched tropey meet-cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-S3 AU

"What do you mean, my suitcase isn’t in your car?" Ben asked. He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice, after the day they’d had. 

Chris clapped him on the back. “I’m sorry, buddy. I literally do not know what happened to it.” 

Ben stared into the trunk of Chris’s car, and thought. He had put his suitcase in his car before leaving for work, as always, and he had arrived at the auditors’ offices, and…his cell phone had rung, hadn’t it? It was Henry. Henry had called to say he was getting married, and that was exciting news, and Ben had…gotten into Chris’s car and left his suitcase in his trunk. And then they’d driven to Gary. Chris had sung the song from  _The Music Man_ almost the entire way there, which had successfully prevented Ben from thinking about anything at all.  _  
_

Damn it. At least it was Thursday, and he only had to get through tomorrow before they could go back to Indy for the weekend.

He shook his head. “It’s my fault. Can I borrow the keys? I’ll just run to Wal-Mart for deodorant and stuff.”

"Well, you know you’re welcome to borrow my all-natural—"

"No, I really want my own deodorant," he said loudly. 

Chris tossed the keys. They flew in a perfect parabola, directly to Ben’s hand. 

Naturally, Ben dropped them, and they skidded under the car. 

*** 

"Ron, what do you mean you left my suitcase in Pawnee?" Leslie whined. 

"There was not room in the trunk for any additional suitcases, Leslie. I packed what was necessary." 

Leslie surveyed the pile of their belongings. A lot of things fit in the trunk of Ron’s Buick. Her file boxes were there, and her extra binders, and her snack food, and her backup snack food. She had her bag of extra shoes and her bag of s’mores. She had her pillows. But not the suitcase with her clothes in it. 

"Where’s your luggage?" she asked. 

Ron held up a single brown paper grocery store bag. 

"That’s it?"

"All I need. I suggest you learn to pack more lightly." 

"Next time."

Ron blinked. “There is not going to be a next time,” he said. “This is the only time I will attend an Indiana State Parks conference with you.” 

She scowled at him, and he sighed and tossed her the keys. 

"Go buy whatever woman things it is that you need," he said. 

"Thanks, Ron." She handed him one of the bags of snacks. "I packed you some pork rinds." 

He grunted in appreciation. 

***

The shopping cart had a wobbly wheel. Of course it did. Ben wobbled it through the Wal-Mart aisles, collecting the necessary items. The hotel might have a toothbrush, but he picked one up anyway. Toothpaste, comb, razor. Check. Deodorant, check. He could just wear the same clothes tomorrow (the parking lot grime hadn’t stuck to his knees  _too_  badly, when he’d retrieved Chris’s keys), but maybe clean socks and a fresh pair of underwear? And pajamas. He could probably use new socks and underwear and pajamas anyway. 

He wobbled his cart towards the men’s clothing department. 

***

Leslie glanced at her watch. Crap. It was getting close to time for  _Friends_ , and she wanted to be back at the hotel in time to watch. 

She took a quick inventory of her cart, which had a wobbly wheel and a piece of gray used chewing gum stuck to the basket. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, check. She had a spare hairbrush in her purse, so that was fine. She could wear these same clothes tomorrow, but a clean pair of hose would be a good idea. And something to sleep in. 

She found the lone rack of women’s sleepwear. It all looked flammable, and itchy, and like it was made for someone four times wider than she was. 

She remembered how comfortable she’d always found her ex-boyfriend’s pajama tops. She would have packed them for this trip, in fact, except he’d taken them all back when they broke up. But who was going to know, or care, if she bought her own? 

She wobbled her cart towards the men’s section. 

***

There was only one pair of men’s pajamas hanging on the rack. Thankfully, they looked like they’d fit. Ben grabbed them without second thought. 

The pajamas got stuck on something. 

"Excuse me," said a voice. He turned around to see that the pajamas weren’t stuck on some _thing;_ they were stuck on some _one,_ a small blonde woman with a cute nose and tiny death-grip hands wrapped around the shirtsleeves.”I had these.” 

Ben kept his grip on the pants. “So did I.” 

"Well, I had them first." 

He felt a prick of annoyance. “No, you didn’t.” 

"Did too." 

Ben sighed. Did he really want to do this? Argue about a single pair of pajamas in a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana? He spotted an employee. 

"Excuse me," he said, waving. "Do you have any more of these in the back?" The employee merely shrugged and kept moving. "Great. Thanks." 

Now the woman had her jaw clenched, too. “Look, I really need these,” she said. “I’m here on a business trip and my suitcase got left at home by mistake.” 

"Same."

"So you think you deserve these pajamas more than I do?" She tugged harder.

"Well, they are men’s pajamas." 

"There isn’t anything good in the women’s section," she protested. "Besides, what do you care if I prefer sleeping in men’s pajamas?" 

"I don’t." 

"Okay then," she said. 

Ben shook his head. “Whatever,” he sighed, releasing his grip. The woman took a couple of steps backwards, flailing, as she tried to catch her balance. He couldn’t help but smile a little. It was cute. 

"You’re an ass," she spat.

"Excuse me?" 

"For laughing at me." 

"I’m not, I—" He sighed. "Sorry. It just—never mind." He started to wobble his cart away. He’d just sleep in a t-shirt and boxers. It would be fine. 

*** 

Leslie stomped back to the women’s section of the Wal-Mart, taking her anger out on the grubby beige floor. She’d forgotten the pantyhose. It wasn’t until she’d tossed a couple of plastic eggs on top of the hard-won pajamas and stomped towards the checkout lines that her emotions began to subside. 

She had, probably, looked kind of funny, falling backwards with a pair of men’s pajamas in her hand. That didn’t mean anyone had the right to  _laugh,_ especially not a stranger, but…

She pushed her cart into the shortest line, realized immediately who the lean shoulders and flat butt in front of her belonged to, and quickly wheeled herself into a different line. 

The rest of her shopping trip went without incident, unless she counted the guy she almost ran over turning into the motel parking lot. The sun had set long ago. He was wrapped in head-to-toe reflective gear, sure, but he was also running backwards, and that was confusing, especially in the dark. 

She parked Ron’s car in the first spot she saw, grabbed her bags, and hurried towards the motel. The parking lot wasn’t well lit, and she didn’t want to linger. She kept the same quick pace as she entered the building, climbed the stairs, and turned a corner into the next hallway. 

"Ow!" she screeched. 

"What the—" 

Leslie blinked a couple of times to clear her vision. She was standing upright, but she had dropped her Wal-Mart bags. There were more bags on the ground than she remembered carrying…

"Good lord. I  _said_  I was sorry. You don’t have to attack me.”

"I wasn’t attacking. I just didn’t see you." She offered him a hand. It was, she thought, the very least she could do.

 The man sighed. It sounded resigned, like he was used to sighing a lot, and Leslie felt a twinge of guilt as they began sorting out the bags. 

"This one’s yours," he said, handing her one that contained nothing but the pajamas. 

"No, you keep them." 

"You bought them. They’re yours." 

Leslie reached out her hand, but didn’t take the bag. 

"What?" 

She took a deep breath and withdrew her hand. “You’re right. They’re men’s pajamas. I mean, I won’t even be able to wear the bottoms. I just wanted the top half.” 

The man cocked an eyebrow at her. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in a long time,” he said. 

"Just take them," Leslie insisted. "I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. It’s just been one of those days, you know?" And she started rummaging around in her purse for her room key. 

When she looked up, the man was holding the pajama top out to her. 

"What’s this?" 

"Halvsies," he said, immediately blushing as though he couldn’t believe he’d said  _halvsies_. “I mean. I didn’t want the top anyway.”

"You’re just saying that."

"No. I don’t like sleeping in anything with buttons on the front. I was  going to wear a t-shirt. So you take the top half." 

She looked at him, studying his face. He seemed sincere. 

"Okay," she agreed. "Halvsies." She reached out for the top. 

He didn’t let go. He was cocking his eyebrow at her again. 

"Now what?" 

"Do you want to get a beer?" 

"What?" 

He swallowed, dropped the sleeve, and took half a step back. “You seem like you could use a beer. I mean, I could too, you know? And there’s a bar across the street. So—” 

"Yeah, okay." For some reason, she immediately felt better just for saying it. "Let me just put this stuff in my room." 

"Yeah, me too. Um, meet you back here in a couple of minutes?" He gave her a tentative, crooked smile. 

"Okay," she said. "Oh. I’m Leslie, by the way." 

"Ben." 

"Nice to meet you, Ben." 

*** 

Suddenly the air felt cleaner, full of possibility. Even though they were only halfway to the crosswalk and he hadn’t had a beer yet. He had someone to talk to other than Chris, though, and that was always a good thing. Inside the pockets of his windbreaker, Ben rubbed his fingertips together, catching a bit of fabric in between them. Leslie walked half a step behind him, then skipped to catch up, looking suddenly youthful even though he was pretty sure they were about the same age. A small chuckle escaped him. 

"What?" she asked, looking up. This time it was just a question. 

"Nothing," he said. 

She elbowed him in the ribs. “It was something.” 

"I was just imagining you trying to walk in those pajama pants." 

"It would’ve looked pretty funny, huh?" She pursed her lips for a moment, then cackled. "They’ll look better on you." 

Even in the dim glow of the street lamps, Ben could see her eyes dart towards his rear end. Then she blushed. Barely. 

An image popped into his mind—him in the pajama bottoms, and Leslie in the top.  _Just_  the top. He tried to squash it down. 

"You think so?" And his voice sounded unusually pleased, even to him. 


	4. let's-just-assume-Ben-moved-to-Pawnee-in-fall AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr list of AU prompts going around that included "'i got caught staring at my adult neighbour raking up a bunch of leaves in their backyard and jumping into them and now have to awkwardly pretend i saw nothing' au"

Ben shifted his phone from his left hand to his right, and immediately wondered why, since he was right-handed and now it was that much harder to open cabinets and peer through curtains. He cringed a little at the backyard. The leaves had turned a few days ago, and the lawn was already covered. 

"Yeah, Mom. Pawnee’s fine so far. No different than anywhere else." 

"And you said they finally listened to your suggestions about lodging?" 

"Mm-hmm."

He wondered, he honestly did, how the entirety of the state budget office had previously failed to figure out that in most small towns, renting a single furnished house for an auditing team for a month or two was cheaper than putting those people up in separate hotel rooms for a month or two. He also honestly wondered why he’d fought so hard for the change, since it meant he now had Chris as a roommate. Chris, not trusting that their furnished home would have an adequate blender, had brought his own from his condo in Indy, promising Ben he’d soon agree that green smoothies were much better than coffee first thing in the morning. For now, though, Ben was more than relieved to have found a coffee pot in the kitchen and several chipped mugs in a cupboard above the sink. 

The trouble was, he hadn’t yet bought any coffee. 

"The house is nice, then?" 

"It’s nice enough." It was dated, was what it was. Whoever had decorated had been very enamored with wood paneling and gingham fabric. It felt kind of nice, actually. Dated it might be, but it was homey, which was more than he could say for most motels. 

He chatted aimlessly with his mother for a few more minutes while he puttered around the kitchen. They’d only arrived a few hours ago, but already some enterprising neighbor had brought over a welcome basket. Ben was putting sheets on his bed at the time, so he hadn’t seen the neighbor, but Chris reported she was very nice indeed. Then he’d departed for his afternoon 10k. 

Finally he hung up the phone, promising not to go so long between phone calls next time, and turned his attention toward finding something to eat. 

The welcome basket contained a packet of homemade cookies—oatmeal raisin, it looked like—a packet of homemade brownies, and a jug of fresh apple cider. This he warmed to steaming in one of the chipped mugs, which he hoped very much wouldn’t die in the microwave. Then he wrapped two cookies in a napkin and took everything onto the tiny back deck. 

"We’re definitely going to need a rake," he muttered to himself.

There was a storage shed at the back of the yard; perhaps he’d find a rake in there. He’d look. Later. He’d look in the shed after he ate this cookie, which as it turned out was oatmeal chocolate chip, not oatmeal raisin. Whoever had made the cookie (presumably his new neighbor) knew  _exactly_  what she was doing. Not only was the cookie delicious, it had just a hint of cinnamon and what he thought might be nutmeg, thus perfectly complimenting the apple cider. And both cookie and cider perfectly complimented this crisp fall afternoon. It was perfect sweater weather, though Ben hadn’t unpacked any of his sweaters yet. Nor had he bothered to put on his tan jacket before coming outside. He was just a tiny bit chilly out here, in his shirtsleeves. It felt kind of great. 

Hardly any of the yards were fenced in this neighborhood. He looked to the right and saw nothing of interest. Then he looked to the left.  _That_  yard had been raked neatly. A giant pile of leaves sat in the middle.

Then he heard a gleeful  _wheeeeeee!_

Ben’s first thought was that the neighbors on the left must have kids. But the figure that emerged from the side of the house, running full tilt, wasn’t a kid; it was an adult—a small adult, but an adult nevertheless. She launched herself into the air with another  _wheeeeeee!_  and landed smack in the middle of the leaf pile. 

He could not figure out how to react to this, and was still contemplatively sipping cider when the woman popped up from the pile and looked directly at him.

He choked. She waved, and headed over in his direction.

"So you’re the other new neighbor, huh?" she called, apparently unembarrassed that he’d just witnessed her jumping in a leaf pile.

"Hello," he sputtered. "I’m Mr. Ben Wyatt."

"Hello, Mr. Ben Wyatt," she said. She was almost up to the patio now, and she stuck out a small hand for him to shake. Her fingers were surprisingly warm. She had a leaf stuck in her hair. "I’m Ms. Leslie Knope. Welcome to Pawnee." 

"Thanks." He swallowed a couple of times, until he felt he’d be able to speak without choking.

Apparently this took too long, because before he could say anything else, Leslie had started talking again. “I met your partner before, when I brought the basket over. Chris. He’s very nice. I hope you’ll be happy in Pawnee. He said you were both here for a job?”

"That’s right."

"It must be nice to work with your partner," she said. "Getting to see them all the time."

"Oh, no, we’re not—it’s—" Ben shook his head. "We’re just work partners. We’re not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but we’re both…"

"Single?"

"And straight," he clarified. For some reason, it seemed unusually important that he clarify this.  

"Oh, that’s too bad," said Leslie Knope. "You’d make a cute couple." She was grinning. "People say that about me and my best friend sometimes, too. It’s too bad we’re not lesbians. You should meet her. Ann. She’s the most beautiful nurse in the world." 

"Okay," said Ben. 

"Well, I’d better get back to work." Leslie shook his hand again, then headed towards her own house. "It was nice to meet you, Ben. I’m glad to see you’re enjoying the gift basket." 

"Oh, that was from you?" 

She nodded, and grinned again. 

"Well…thanks," he said. "The cookies are really good." 

"I know." She waved again, and disappeared into the house, her leaf pile apparently forgotten. Then her head reemerged. "Hey, Ben, call me if you need anything. I’ve lived here all my life. I know pretty much everything about Pawnee." 

"Okay. Thanks, Leslie." 

She disappeared again, for good this time. Ben went back into his own house. 

He kept peering through the windows all afternoon, at the leaf pile that remained in Leslie’s backyard, but he didn’t see her make a second jump. 


	5. Leslie/Ben, buying furniture for the new house

"Nope," Ben said, shaking his head at Leslie’s overstuffed garage. "I really don’t think we need to buy a single piece of furniture for the new house." 

"Not even something that’s just ours together?" 

"The  _house_  is just ours together.” 

Leslie launched herself at her fiance, who quickly guided them backwards to one of the four sofas that was parked where her car should have been. 


	6. Leslie/Ben, Christmas tree decorating

"You have  _how_  many boxes of Christmas decorations?” 

Leslie paused—she’d been humming “Deck the Halls” under her breath—and shifted the box of of lights from one hip to the other. 

"Seventeen in here, I think." 

Ben looked alarmed. “ _In here_? You mean…there are more somewhere else?” 

She nodded. “This is just the tree stuff. Outdoor decorations are in the garage. I think my Nativity might be under the tuba in the living room. And then the Christmas-specific crafting stuff—that’s usually in the gift wrap closet, but I might have moved it last year, I can’t remember—” 

"Good lord," Ben muttered. 

He wasn’t even all the way up her attic stairs, which meant he couldn’t even see exactly how much more lay behind the first wave of cardboard boxes. His head was level with her waist, and his apparent lack of height—combined with the red cardigan she’d convinced him to button snugly over his green plaid shirt—reminded her of an elf. A grumpy elf without enough Christmas spirit. A grumpy,  _sexy_  elf. 

Well, she knew what to do about grumpy elves. 

"Take it thither," she ordered, handing Ben the box she’d been holding. She kissed him on the top of the head. 

"Thither?" 

"To the tree." 

"Which tree?" 

"The living room tree. The bedroom tree decorations are under my bed." 

"Right," he sighed. 

"Ben." 

"Hmm?" 

She grinned, kneeled on her dusty attic floor, and made out with him on his sexy elf face until he shoved the box back to the top of the stairs and slid his fingers under the  _green_  cardigan she was wearing over her  _red_  plaid shirt. 

"That’s naughty," she said. 

Ben grinned. “I can be nice if you want.” 

"Not now. Naughty, please." 

Ben looked around, as if trying to decide whether they should be naughty on the pull-down attic ladder. Eventually he shook his head. 

"Wait, wait," Leslie said, when they reached the doorway of her bedroom. "I’ve got leftover cookie icing downstairs."

The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched, and Leslie scurried to the kitchen. She’d always kind of wanted to get naughty with the cookie icing. 


	7. Leslie/Ben, prompt: rainy kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Jerry's Painting AU

_Rap._

_Ping._

Ben rolled over on his new mattress, smushing his face hard into his new pillow, and resolved not to open his eyes. 

 _Ping_.  _Rap. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—_

He groaned and sat up. “Stop it, April,” he groaned, before opening his eyes. 

He jumped, which was no mean feat for someone who was still technically laying in bed. 

Part of the rapping noise was a violent rainstorm. Fat, angry drops beat against the panes of glass. He was even more glad he’d left the Super Suites. The Super Suites leaked, probably. 

And part of the noise was a small blonde woman, who was standing outside his window in a cheerful red raincoat and green galoshes, a blue umbrella over her head.

She grinned and waved, and stopped throwing gravel at his window.

Ben jerked his head in the direction of the front door, and Leslie nodded. Hastily, he threw on the pants he’d been wearing yesterday, added his tan jacket over his sleep t-shirt, and realized only as he was opening the front door that he was still barefoot. He also realized, belatedly, that he ought to buy some curtains. 

"Hi," he said, standing aside to let Leslie in. She didn’t come in very far. She stood in the entry way, dripping rain into a pile of Paunch Burger bags that Ben could have sworn he’d thrown out.  

"Hi," she replied. 

"Um…" 

She rummaged around inside the lining of her raincoat and produced, somewhat improbably, an overstuffed binder. 

 _Leslie Knope’s Ben Wyatt’s Welcome Wagon_ , it said. There was a picture on the front, his and Leslie’s heads glued on to what he recognized as the wagon-train pioneers from one of those horrible murals. 

"You’re staying here." 

"Yeah, uh, I made that decision a while ago…" 

"But now you have a permanent address," she said, beaming. "So I’m going to help you move in." 

"I don’t really have stuff  _to_  move.” 

Leslie scrunched up her nose. “Really? I made a road trip mix for going to Indy.” 

"You what?" 

"Should I not have rented a U-Haul?" 

Ben blinked once, then twice, then three times. Leslie still stood there, looking only slightly less sure of herself.

"I assumed you’d have furniture in storage somewhere." 

"Not really." 

"Oh." Leslie swallowed, apparently considering something.

"Look, do you want to come…more in?" he asked, gesturing towards the living room. 

"I’m wet." 

"Yeah. That might be a good thing. The floors need washing anyway." 

Leslie dripped her way over to the disgusting sofa and plopped down, then flipped open the binder and pulled out a sheet of paper. 

"You made me an appointment to change my drivers’ license?" 

She nodded. “I had to call in a couple of favors.” 

"Can’t you just schedule an appointment online?" 

The look he received in response made him wonder exactly what kind of town he’d agreed to live in. 

"This is in half an hour," he said. 

"Yeah. Put your shoes on." 

He stepped in a soggy marshmallow on his way back to find his shoes and socks. 

Approximately two hours later—appointments at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles didn’t seem to mean very much—Ben found himself in possession of a brand new license, identifying him as a resident of Pawnee, Indiana. His old license, now sporting a neat hole, seemed suddenly bedraggled and inconsequential. 

"I wanna see," said Leslie. 

The thing about his previous license, though, was that it undoubtedly had a much more flattering picture—one in which he wasn’t soaking wet, and his hair wasn’t damply plastered to his scalp. 

Leslie tugged the new license out of his hand before he could either get it to his wallet or protest properly. So there he stood in the BMV parking lot, rain pouring down, as Leslie took a couple of steps back and held up his new license, squinting as she compared the terrible picture to the real thing, which was apparently something that needed to happen now, before they walked back to the car. 

"Well?" 

She handed it back. “I’ve seen worse.” 

"Thanks?" 

"Well, you know. The only person I’ve seen with a really good license picture is Ann." 

"Right." 

"That one’s not that bad. It’s not that good either. But it’s not that bad. I mean that as a compliment, you know. But the real you is much more handsome, of course." 

She was talking really fast. Really, really fast. Like she was nervous. Had he seen her nervous? Why would Leslie be nervous right now? But she was. She was splashing back to the car with her umbrella in hand, not unfolded, glancing over her shoulder as though she thought he might not follow her. 

Ben followed. He climbed into the passenger seat of Leslie’s car, buckled his seatbelt, and realized his pants were too wet to get his wallet out from a seated position. 

"Car’s kind of steamy," Leslie muttered as she turned on the ignition. 

There was a Post-It in Ben’s wallet. He didn’t have a board in his room to put it on, and he hadn’t wanted to just stick it to the wall, because it was important.  _Mention it casually to Chris on Monday_ , it said, an innocuous enough reminder to himself that he absolutely did not now, and would not ever, need. 

Leslie hadn’t taken the car out of park yet. 

Ben unbuckled his seatbelt. 

Screw waiting for Monday. He’d wasted months already. He wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good Saturday, even if things were a little damp. 

Leslie flipped up the center armrests. A tiny  _oh_  escaped her. 

The car windows got a lot steamier. 


	8. Leslie/Ben, prompt: snowed in, cute snuggles (non-insane version, post-Smallest Park)

Ben could have sworn he wouldn’t be able to sleep, couldn’t possibly sleep, didn’t  _want_  to sleep. There was no way he was going to let himself fall asleep. 

Nevertheless, he was now waking up, which meant he’d fallen asleep at some point. 

As soon as he was aware that he had, in fact, woken up, his heartbeat quickened. 

He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t in his own bed, either. 

Leslie was undoubtedly awake already, but for the first time he could recall since the very first time they’d slept together, she had remained in bed. He could feel her against his back. She was the big spoon. He could also feel her thinking. The harder she thought, the warmer she got, and right now she was extraordinarily toasty. 

He meant to say  _good morning_  or  _hey there_  or possibly even  _I love you_ , but instead what came out was a simple, throaty “Leslie.” 

Two lips and a nose squished softly into the back of his neck, and he could barely wait until her face was more or less out of elbow range before twisting around to catch her and kiss her properly. 

"Guess what," she said. 

 _I want to be with you, screw it, let’s do this thing for real_  and even  _I love you_  all raced through his mind, in Leslie’s voice, as he took careful note of the way the dim morning light played across her cheekbones. 

"What?" 

"It snowed last night." 

"Oh." 

"Like really snowed." 

"Really?" 

She nodded. “The power’s out.” 

Now that she mentioned it, the one forearm that was exposed from the blankets felt awfully chilly. 

"Heat’s out too?" 

"I can go restart the pilot light," she said, moving to get out of bed. But Ben caught her wrist, wrapping his fingers around the sleeve of her soft plaid flannel pajamas. They were too damn cute, those pajamas.

Leslie stopped dead and raised her eyebrows at him. He raised his back.

"Or we can stay in bed a while longer," she said.

"Yeah, let’s do that."

She scooted lower in the bed, gestured for him to do the same, and pulled the covers over both their heads. 


	9. Leslie/Ben, prompt: rainy kisses (insane AU version)

Leslie Knope sat at her desk, running her fingers over the edges of her “essential” badge and thinking about how terribly quiet City Hall was. It was almost like other government employees didn’t  _want_  to get work done during the government shutdown. What else did they even have to do? She, Leslie, was being productive. This morning alone, she had finished four projects that would have taken twice as long as they would have if she’d had to deal with members of the public, or with Ron. 

And now she had another stack of paperwork that urgently needed to be delivered to the one other person at work in the building today. 

She kept her heels clacking confidently down the hall to Mean Ben’s office, even when the lights unexpectedly went out all over the building and she was plunged into sudden mid-afternoon darkness. Not  _total_  darkness, but it was definitely awfully dark, for July. But that was no matter. She knew the location of every single emergency flashlight stashed within City Hall. 

"Mr. Wyatt," she said, pushing the door open without knocking. But Mean Ben wasn’t at his desk. Leslie felt, though—she didn’t know exactly how—that the room was not empty.

She pushed the door open further, and saw Mean Ben staring out the window. His back was turned to her. For a moment, her eyes got stuck on his butt (which she reluctantly admitted to herself wasn’t so terrible), but then she realized what he was staring at. 

"Leslie," he said, without turning around. "Come look at this. Good lord." 

Bright, fat snowflakes were coming down from the sky. What was more, some of them were starting to stick. 

"It’s July," Ben said, as though trying to convince himself of the fact. "It’s  _July_.” 

"It is July," Leslie agreed. "You know, statistically Pawnee has the worst winters in Indiana. But they’ve always held off until, you know…" 

"Winter?" 

"Winter." 

Ben took a step to his left so she could get a better view, and she stood next to him. For a good five minutes, they watched the snow in silence. She even forgot about the binder she was carrying. 

"Well, I vote we go home," said Ben. 

"Are you kidding?" 

"Um, no." He raised an eyebrow. "It’s  _snowing_. In July. And the power’s out.” 

"The snow’s sticking to the roads." 

"I know how to drive in snow, Leslie, I—" Even in the dim light, she could see him go pale. "Pawnee doesn’t have the money to send out plows or salt trucks right now." 

"Pawnee doesn’t even <I>have</I> road salt right now," Leslie said. "Last winter was rough. We ran out." 

"When does it usually get delivered?" 

"August," she said, and then—unable to resist—she added, "Not that things would be any better if this was August, because you cut off all expenditures—" 

"Well, I think there are some exceptions that can be made for public safety—" 

"Or," Leslie interrupted, suddenly struck by a vision, "we could open up the outdoor skating rink." 

Ben took a couple of steps back. 

"Oh, crap on a hockey puck. I’m sorry." 

"It’s fine," he muttered, waving her off. "I haven’t exactly been able to live my life in total avoidance of all skating rinks." 

They both seemed to take this as a cue to sit. 

"It’s too bad you’ll never let me open the rink," she said, just as Ben rushed out with "I actually really like watching the Olympics."

Then he just looked embarrassed. 

"Figure skating or speed skating?" 

"Um. Both?" 

"Ice dancing?" 

He shrugged. “It’s not as exciting, but yeah, I—what?”

"Nothing," said Leslie, trying to suppress a grin. "It’s just, I was Pawnee’s junior ice dancing champion four years running, when I was a kid." 

"That’s cute." 

"It was cute," said Leslie. She smiled at Ben, and he smiled back, and she decided not to admit that she’d been the only junior ice dancing competitor for four years running. "I bet I could still do it pretty well. I’ve always been good at skating." 

It was exciting, really, having a sudden winter wonderland in the middle of what had been the worst summer on record, and even if she’d rather spend it making beautiful snow angels and snowwomen with Ann, she knew Ann would be needed at the hospital, on a weird day like today. Someone would get frostbite. Jerry, probably. 

And here, at work, she had a chance to make a real difference. 

"Right," she said, snapping to attention. Ben sat up straight, apparently startled out of some deep thought. 

"Hmm?" 

"Snowplows," she said, gesturing towards the boxes of papers that took up the back half of his office. "We might need them in a couple of hours, if this keeps up. Let’s figure out where the money’s going to come from." 

She stood up, intending to fetch the camping lanterns from the Parks department, and caught Ben giving her a very funny look. She studied his face for a moment. From this angle, honestly, his face wasn’t that terrible either. 

"Okay," he said, shrugging. 

When she came back, he was bent over a stack of spreadsheets at the circular table. He’d rolled his sleeves  _down._

Maybe the temperature had dropped a little inside City Hall. She watched Ben’s arms for a moment. It was actually kind of weird to see his forearms covered like that. Which was stupid, she told herself. He wore his sleeves rolled down when he had on one of his horrible sport coats, or the windbreaker that she actually kind of liked, and surely he’d wear sweaters with the sleeves rolled down. Or suits, if he owned a real suit. Tuxedos, he’d wear the sleeves rolled down on a tuxedo…

Why in the world was she thinking about Benjamin Wyatt in a tuxedo, though? 

"I brought cocoa," she said, flinging a couple packets across the table. Ben looked up, puzzled. 

"How are we going to heat the water if all the power’s out?" 

"Oh yeah." She put a lantern on the table, turned it on, and pulled her chair closer to Ben’s. Maybe a little closer than was strictly necessary. She could almost— _almost—_ feel his body heat. 

A little shiver ran down her spine, and she realized she wasn’t so sure it was related to the current temperature. 

She scooted her chair a little closer, pretending she needed to lean over Ben’s papers even more, and let her knee bump into his calf. 

Ben pushed the papers over a few inches in her direction. 

He didn’t move his leg. 


	10. Leslie/girl triplet, Galentine's Day

"And here’s your first Galentine’s Day present," Leslie whispered, tucking the teddy—dressed in lace-collared Supreme Court robes—next to her sleeping daughter. She crouched next to the crib. "The first of many. Okay, Ben, take our picture with Ruth Bear-der Ginsburg." 

Ben dutifully snapped a few with his phone and a few more with the bigger camera, and decided it wasn’t worth asking where Leslie had found teddy-sized judicial garments.  

"What do you have planned today?" 

"Brunch with everyone, of course." Leslie stood up. "Actually, just brunch. I wanted to walk her to Ann’s old house and back, but I think it’s going to be too cold." 

"It did snow a little last night." 

"So I’ll tell her the story of our friendship inside instead. And we have a Skype appointment with Ann later tonight." 

"Sounds good," Ben said. "Hey, what did you get Ann this year?" 

"Spa gift certificate, four hours of babysitting so she can use the spa gift certificate, a cookbook of healthy cake recipes that are  _supposed_  to still taste good—” she made a face at that—“and a diorama of all our previous Galentine’s Days. Only I used model woodland creatures instead of dolls. Ann’s a beautiful porcupine.” 

"You do remember we’re supposed to be saving money, right?" 

"It’s Galentine’s Day, Ben. Okay, you. Time for present number two." She pulled out a baby outfit that more or less matched her own. "Look at this. I found her a little red coat just like mine." 

She returned from brunch with a tear in her eye and a framed picture under one arm. 

"April made us this," she said, holding it out. 

"Good lord," Ben said. "What is that?" 

"It’s Hillary as Joan of Arc, murdering the Wiggles," she said. "It might be a little violent to hang in their room right now, huh?"

"Just a little."

"Well, we can keep it in the basement with the Iron Throne." 


	11. Leslie tells Ann she's pregnant

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Ann. Oh, Ann. You beautiful mother Plymouth Rock hen."

She shifts a sleeping Oliver to her other hip. “Is everything okay?”

"I think so. Why?" 

"You’re calling really late and you sound exhausted."

"I didn’t wake you up, did I?" 

"No." 

"I have something really important to tell you. You can’t tell anyone. Except Chris, of course. But Chris can’t tell anyone. Well, Chris can tell Ben—I mean, Ben already knows, of course, but—"

Ann suddenly realizes she’s been holding her breath. 

"Leslie…" 

"What?"

"Are you pregnant?" 

"Yes," squeaks Leslie’s voice. 

"Oh, my god, that’s amazing, that—wait. Do you want to be pregnant? Like, right now?"  

"I do," she says, softly. 

"You didn’t tell me you were trying." It’s hard to keep a note of hurt out of her voice. Ann doesn’t regret moving, she really doesn’t, except at times like this when it’s hard not to feel like she’s missing out on important parts of her best friend’s life. 

"We weren’t, exactly. I mean, we were talking about trying soon, like when it was a better time, but it happened. Now. It’s happening now."

"And you’re both happy about it?" 

"Yes." And that’s the Leslie she knows—tired, but decisive. "Ben’s so happy, Ann. You should have seen his face, he was…" 

Ann waits for the thought to continue, but it doesn’t. 

"Leslie?"

"Sorry. I was just—I’m processing. And remembering. I’m remembering how it feels to tell you I’m pregnant." 

"How’s it feel?"

"I wish you were here."

"Me too." 

"I really want to give you a hug right now." There’s almost a sob in Leslie’s voice, and Ann finds herself blinking back a tear.

"I’ll see you soon, okay? We’ll try to come down really, really soon." 

"Okay." 

"Okay."

"That’s not soon enough," Leslie admonishes. 

"I know." Oliver stirs in her arms, and she bounces him gently, until he lets out a tiny wail and she smells evidence. "I gotta go, okay? I’ll call you in a couple of days." 

"Okay. Ann?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I love you." 

"Love you too." 


	12. Camping AU, prompt: sing-along

"I’ve got one word for you," said Jerry, beaming around the campfire. "Sing-along!"

Somewhat predictably, everyone else on the camping trip groaned. Well, not everyone, Ben noticed. Donna merely scoffed. 

"No, Jerry, no sing-alongs!" Leslie snapped. "Sing-alongs are not going to help us brainstorm a great idea!" 

"Actually, Leslie, music is known to increase creativity—" 

Leslie smashed her hands over her ears, sending little bits of pigtail peeking through her fingers. 

"I can’t hear you, Jerry. C’mon, everyone. Back to work." 

Everyone else on the camping trip groaned again. This time Donna joined in. Ben, not sure exactly what his legs or feet were trying to do, stood up and walked over to Leslie, miraculously managing not to trip on any of the tree branches on the floor. Ground. Whatever. 

"Hey, um…" 

"What?" 

"You know, a sing-along isn’t a terrible idea," he started, bracing himself.

"You really think campfire songs are going to help?" 

"No," Ben said hastily. He absolutely didn’t want to sing out loud in front of anyone whose opinion of him mattered. "But—look, your children’s concert was a big success. There’s got to be a way to monetize that, right? Charge for admission…" 

For a moment, he saw a fire light in Leslie’s eyes…but then it went out, and she sighed. He was left with a vague feeling that maybe he’d just seen the reflection of Ron tossing another log on the fire. 

"Not big enough." She shook her head. "Not big enough, and too much like the Harvest Festival. But—but good thinking, Ben. That’s going in the right direction. Using the ol’ noodle."

She tapped him lightly on the top of his hair, then jerked her arm back and crammed her hand as far in her vest pocket as it would go. 


	13. 17 Gifts Ben Wyatt Received for his First Father's Day

  1. Three plaid neckties
  2. Three packs of socks
  3. Three V-neck pullover sweaters
  4. Three new unity quilt squares
  5. One tiny Jon Snow costume
  6. One stuffed wolf
  7. One tiny Tyrion Lannister costume
  8. One plastic goblet
  9. One tiny Khaleesi costume
  10. Three stuffed dragons
  11. Breakfast in bed 
  12. One sixty-minute butt massage
  13. One bottle high-end bubble bath (from Tom)
  14. One firm handshake (from Ron)
  15. One rousing Johnny Karate concert (from Andy and April)
  16. Three big slobbery kisses (from Champion)
  17. (Two days later) One enormous “Happy First Father’s Day” scrapbook




	14. Flu Season Part 3

"I want to go with Mommy," Hillary whined. 

"You’re running a fever." 

"But I want to go with Mommy," she whined again, making her eyes extra big and blue.  Ben still hadn’t figured out how she did that, but it sent little needles through his heart every time.

"Mommy already left for the zoo," he told her. "You can go next time, okay? As soon as you’re not sick."

There was a little more whining, and a few tears, but she was too sick to put up much of a fight. Soon enough she was curled quietly in a corner of the sofa with some crayons. 

"Whatcha drawing?" 

"Work," she said, holding up the picture. 

Other people’s kids drew their families in front of houses; his drew the five of them in front of Pawnee City Hall. 

"All done," she announced.

Ben dutifully hung this City Hall on the fridge, under four other City Halls. 

"Daddy, I’m not sick anymore." 

He placed a hand on her forehead. “Yes, you are. You’re burning up.” 

“ _You’re_  burning up,” she replied.

 An idea struck Ben. He opened the fridge. Chicken, they had chicken, and carrots, and oddly enough, there was celery. He pulled everything out and arranged it on the counter. When he turned around again, Hillary was asleep on the living room floor.

She woke up a couple of hours later, hair mussed, and padded into the kitchen, dragging a well-worn stuffed miniature horse behind her.

"Want to hear a story?" he asked. She nodded sleepily and sat at the kitchen table. 

"Juice?"

"Once upon a time," said Ben, pulling a sippy cup out of the cabinet, "a long time ago, right when your mommy and I first met, she got sick, kind of like you are now."

"Not that cup, Daddy, the other cup." 

He changed cups. “This one?” She nodded. “Anyway, your mommy got sick and I made her this soup.” 

“ _I_  want soup.” 

He ladled a little bit into a bowl. “Careful. It’s still hot.” 

"This is my favorite soup," she declared, before she’d done more than stab her spoon into the bowl. "Is it Mommy’s favorite soup?" 

"I think so," Ben said, though all these years later, he wasn’t entirely sure Leslie had ever even tasted it. 


	15. The triplets go to Minnesota (or do they?)

"Well, the way I see it, we have two options," Ben said. He pointed at a column on one of his many spreadsheets. "One, we rent a minivan so we have extra room, and we drive for twelve hours, which doesn’t sound appealing. Or two, we fly with three babies, which is both expensive and impossible, probably." 

"We have to go, though." 

"I don’t see why we have to go."

"It’s your family reunion. We have to go." 

Ben just stared. Eventually, he let his head fall to the table. 

"I say van," Leslie said. "Let’s get a bigger one. And let’s swing by Michigan on the way up. Ann and Chris and Oliver should come too—"

Ben looked up. “You wanna just go to Michigan instead? Because it’s not exactly on the way.” 

"Kind of," Leslie admitted. 

"Let’s do that," Ben said decisively. "Let’s rent a lake house. I want to take the kids to a lake house." 

"In Michigan?"

"Why not in Michigan? We’ll invite my family. If they really want to experience the horrors of vacation with four babies, they can come." 

Leslie clapped her hands. “I’ll call Ann right away,” she said. “You call Stephanie. I’ll plan a girl’s night. Oh, wait, what about—”

"Ulani," Ben sighed. "It might be five babies. Can we handle vacation with five babies?"

"I mean, I don’t sleep that much anyway." 

"Can I handle vacation with a half-sibling who’s only a year or two older than my kids?" Ben wondered aloud. He shook his head. "Nope. Don’t want to. Let’s just go to Michigan and leave it at that." 

"Your family will be disappointed," Leslie said. "Let’s at least invite Steph." 

"Okay, fine. But she’s miserable when she gets sunburned, just so you know." 


	16. Benjamin/Lesliemin (adult content here)

"Do you think Andy and April will be suspicious that you haven’t come home for two nights in a row?"

Ben shrugged. “I assume April is always suspicious and Andy never is.” 

"Probably," Leslie agreed. 

"I also don’t care," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. 

"Mm." Leslie snuggled closer, which encouraged him to nuzzle into her hair.

He was probably right. Andy wouldn’t notice. April wouldn’t care enough to spill the beans if she found out. And everything seemed pretty perfect right now, so why worry? She’d had more than twenty-four hours of kissing, which Ben was excellent at doing, and she was nicely light-headed from her glass of white wine, and on top of that, her house still smelled like pizza.

"They won’t notice," she said. "You’re very sneaky, Benjamin." 

"Lesliemin." His breath tickled the back of her ear, and she let her hand slide down between his legs. 


	17. Inappropriate turn-ons

"Really?" Leslie asked, screwing up her nose. "This is doing it for you? But you hate camping." 

Ben spread his hands. “I can’t help it. And may I remind you, you’re in no position to make accusations here.” 

"I know, but…"

"It’s a really good shade of purple on you," he said. 

"Okay." 

"And the Goddesses do a lot of activities other than camping."

"That’s true," she admitted. 

"I don’t know," Ben said. "I just like the vest, okay?" 

Leslie stood on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. “I gotta go pick up the girls. Behave yourself while I’m gone.”

"I always do," he said, although that was a lie. After the last Goddesses weekend trip, she’d come home to find Andy, Garth, and Barney Varmn in pajamas in the living room, all four men arguing about those stupid cones. 

"I’m serious," she said. 

"Have fun." He waved her out the door. 

She resolved to make him a “Cutest Butt” merit badge when she got home. 


	18. Government shutdown time, prompt: Magic Mike AU

"Leslie, that’s not a good idea." 

"Well, Ann, I have to do something!" Leslie snapped into her phone. "Sorry. I’m sorry. But the government has been shut down for forty-two days now, and this is the best fundraising idea I’ve had." She had worn a circle in her backyard, she noticed, from all the angry pacing. Actually, several circles. One around each birdhouse. 

"You’re not supposed to be fundraising—" 

"I wonder who would be wiling to do it," Leslie said, talking loudly over Ann’s dumb protest. "Sewage Joe, probably, but ugh, no one wants to see that and I don’t want to ask him. Andy, do you think Andy would? Ooh, maybe Councilman Dexhart—"

"Leslie," said Ann. She used the nurse voice. "You cannot ask male employees of the government to perform stripteases to raise money for the government. That’s absolutely the worst idea you’ve ever had."

"I wonder if the auditors would do it," Leslie mused. She chose to ignore the fact that Ann had called this her worst idea ever, though the accusation stung. 

"Chris and Ben?" Ann paused. "I mean. Women would pay money to see Chris naked. You’re probably right about that." 

"So I should ask them?" 

“ _No._  I think they’d fire you on the spot for even suggesting it.” 

Leslie sighed. “I bet Chris wouldn’t and Ben would. Fire me, I mean. God, he’s such a buzzkill.”  _  
_

"Even if you asked them, which you shouldn’t, and they said yes, which they wouldn’t," Ann said, "you’d have to be there watching."

"That wouldn’t be _so_  bad.” 

"No?" Ann sounded skeptical. 

"I mean, don’t get me wrong, Ben’s the worst," she said. "But relatively speaking, his butt’s the least worst thing about him."

Ann groaned through the phone. “Do not, I repeat not, even mention this idea to any state auditors or anyone else other than me.” 

"Fine," huffed Leslie. "Hey. Ann. That gives me a better idea. You’re not a government employee—"

"Leslie, no. Absolutely not." 

"Ann, I’ve been to the Glitter Factory, and I can tell you for a fact that you’re way more beautiful than any of those women."


	19. Ben/Andy friendship times

Ben scowled at his phone, confused, and swiped to answer. “Hello?” 

"You broke my husband," snapped a voice on the other end. 

"Good morning to you too, April." 

"I’m serious," she said. "What did you do to him last night?" 

"Nothing. We got burritos and watched  _Inception._ ”

"He sounds like a conspiracy theorist now," she complained. 

"I’m sorry, what?" 

April sighed. “Will you just come over here and make him stop?”

"What’s he doing?"

"He’s got a top," April said. "He got some old metal top from somewhere and he’s just been spinning it on the kitchen floor all night. I think he hypnotized himself." 

"I can’t come over now. We have a doctor’s appointment." 

"Well, come over after, then." 

She hung up. 

An hour or so later, waiting in Dr. Saperstein’s office, Ben received a text message. He made the mistake of reading it. 

"Good lord!" His phone hit the floor. 

"Babe, what’s wrong?" 

"Nothing. Just…" He shuddered and tried to take a deep breath. "It’s just April messing with me." 

 _Don’t come over_ , said the text, which he thought April had written, though it came from Andy’s phone.  _Hypnosis sex is amazing._


	20. Prompt: trying to sleep with three kids in the bed

Ben covered his face with his hands and pulled slowly downwards. “I give up,” he groaned. “I give up, okay? Just…calm down. Go to sleep.” 

No one was going to go to sleep, he feared—not the kids, who were hyped up on sugar (or maybe just adrenaline), and bouncing on top of him in footie pajamas; not Leslie, who was also hyped up on sugar and had instigated the whole thing (and was also wearing footie pajamas, about which he just didn’t even want to know); and definitely not him, as he was on the wrong end of a horrible game he’d just learned.

The game was called Tickle Fights. Like Cones of Dunshire, it had a clear objective; unlike Cones of Dunshire, it was impossible to win. Unless, perhaps, you were willing to arm-swipe toddlers onto the floor. 

He wasn’t quite there yet. 

"Truce?" he begged. 

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “What do you think? Should we let him off the hook?” 

He heard one “No,” one “What’s truce?” and one  _thwump_ , as a feather pillow hit him in the side of the face. 


	21. Prompt: Leslie's children don't like breakfast food

"First morning of preschool!" Leslie calls from the kitchen. "It’s a special day. You can have anything you want for breakfast. What do you want?" 

She’s ready for this—as ready to send her children off to school as any mother ever has been. The backpacks have been packed for weeks, school supplies labeled despite the teacher’s repeated reminders that preschoolers don’t need to bring pencils. She’s got two cameras at the ready, one for her and one for Ben (the second one is already set up on a tripod outside), and she’s got a special playlist of educational songs ready for the car. 

She’s got one hand on the buttermilk and the other on the whipped cream when the breakfast table chorus starts. 

"Hamburger!" 

"Spaghetti!"

"Turkey chili!" 

She closes the fridge. 

"We’ve talked about this," she says, trying not to let her children see her wince. "Those are dinner foods. Not breakfast foods." 

"Pizza!" 

"French fries!"

"Chicken fingers!" 

They’re cute, and most of the time she’s glad they’re learning to express their own opinions, but no. 

"Here are your choices," she starts. "Waffles, pancakes, cereal, bacon and eggs—"

"Eggs are yucky."

"I want a sandwich!"

"No more waffles!" 

"I know we just had waffles last night, but—" She realizes, as the words leave her mouth, that her children’s inability to distinguish between breakfast and dinner foods might not be entirely their fault. "Okay. What about French toast?"

"No!" yell three voices, in unison. 

Leslie opens the refrigerator door again and shoots a mouthful of whipped cream to calm herself. 


	22. Prompt: triplets + scrapbooks

01. “You realize we are going to have to move all this stuff somewhere.” 

"I know," Leslie says, wiping away a tear. She can’t tell, right now, if it’s a happy tear or a sad one or some other kind entirely. "We need a nursery more than we need a crafting room." 

Ben gives her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “I’m sure we can fit your scrapbooking table in the basement.” 

02. "I just don’t know, Ann! It’s a lot to think about. Do I do individual scrapbooks for each kid, so they each have their own when they get older, or do I make the same one three times, so they each have their own, or do I just make a series that I keep forever, or—"

Ann decides this is an appropriate time to use the nurse voice. “Breathe, Leslie.” She hears a loud rush through the phone, then—

"Because I also have relatives to think about, you know? My mom, Ben’s parents, that’s at least three more, or nine more if I’m doing individual ones." 

"Whatever you do will be perfect. And you have months to think about it, still." 

"No, I don’t!" Leslie squeaks. "I’m only going to be pregnant once, Ann. I don’t want to leave anything out. Do you think one scrapbook per trimester is going to be enough, or should I do each month individually?" 

"I think you should be focusing on your new job. Use scrapbooking as stress relief." 

"That’s exactly what I am doing!" 

Ann closes her eyes and thinks of warm brownies. 

03. Ben enters his office Monday morning to find a brightly wrapped present on his desk, and—after a hasty glance around all four corners of the room—eases his top drawer open with a pen to make sure the desk isn’t booby-trapped with more presents. 

It’s not. 

He slides off the ribbon and tears the paper. A scrapbook.  _Our Future Family Vacations._

Logically, the pages should be blank, but when Ben flips the book open to a random spot in the middle, he finds a collage of his and Leslie’s faces on Mount Rushmore in place of Lincoln and Roosevelt (Ann and Joe Biden have taken the other two spots), tacked to the page with three baby stroller stickers. 

04. Once upon a time, Leslie Knope believed she could focus on anything she wanted to. If she wanted something, really wanted it, nothing would be able to shake her concentration. 

She knows, now, that she was wrong. 

"Babe, I just—"

"Hmm?" 

"Nothing," she sighs, standing up for a stretch. "It’s just more crowded down here than I thought it would be." 

Ben looks up momentarily. “I promise I’ll get those cones off your workspace soon.” 

"Did you borrow my medium-sized tree-shaped paper punch?" 

This time, when he raises his head for an instant, he looks a little guilty. “Sorry. I’ve got it over here.” 

"How many cones…" 

"Leslie," he says, voice strained, "it’s the  _expansion pack_. The first one. It has to be perfect.”

She sighs, pulls her phone from the pocket of her maternity jeans, and starts snapping pictures in the unlikely event that one day, the triplets will care to read a scrapbook about Styrofoam cones and imaginary wizard shepherds. 


	23. Andy/April, morning cupcakes

"Remember the song, though? Pizza in the morning, pizza in the evening, pizza at suppertime—when pizza’s on a bagel, you can eat pizza anytime—"

April shrugged at her husband. “Not really.” 

"I bet it works for cupcakes too," said Andy. "Cupcakes in the morning, cupcakes in the evening—"

"Just eat it like it is."

"When cupcake’s on a bagel, you can eat cupcakes anytime—" 

"You can eat cupcakes anytime, without a bagel." 

"I’m gonna do it, and it’s going to be awesome," Andy declared. "What are we gonna call it? Bagke? No, cupcacgle." 

"That’s great, Andy." She clapped her husband on the back…and grabbed a cupcake right away, before he could find a bagel to smash it on. 


	24. Leslie takes the kids on a work trip

"Do you think the kids need more layers?" Leslie wonders. She’s checked the temperature on her phone way too many times and it’s just not going up. "It’s freezing out there. Below freezing. How did you survive childhood?"

"Partridge is way farther south. We’re practically in Canada right now." 

"Is there much of a difference?" 

"Enough," Ben says. "Are you sure we should even take them out of the car?"

"We have to. The main part of the park is only accessible by boat." 

He twitches. “We have to put the kids in a  _boat_? What kind of boat? Like—” 

"A canoe or a kayak." Leslie twists around to look at the backseat, at her three little ones. "You should wait at the visitor center with them. It’s gonna be at least two more years before they’re big enough for life jackets." 

She makes a mental note to schedule her next visit to Voyageurs National Park for 2019, by which time the community center will have taught them how to swim, and Ron will have taught them how to paddle. 


	25. Ed, you're fired (prompt: Pawnee is late to another pop culture trend)

"I’m not sure about the new guy," Leslie admits. She’s been fretting about this for weeks, really, ever since he arrived from St. Louis with his Cardinals hat and his remarkably neat haircut. 

Donna raises an eyebrow. “I am. That is a fine man.” 

"No, I don’t think Ed is fine. I think there’s something really wrong with him. He’s worse than Larry. He—oh, that’s not what you meant." 

"No, it is not." Donna leans forward. "Spill. What’s the matter?" 

In response, Leslie pulls out her iPad, opens the email app, and shows Donna her 37 emails from Ed, all detailing his results at various Buzzfeed quizzes. 

"Is this information I can use?" 

Leslie shakes her head. “Donna, look at this one. He got literally every question wrong on this one about national parks. He works for the National Parks Service! And this one, look at this one.” 

"His spirit animal is a baked potato?"

Leslie groans and shuts off the iPad. 

—

"Leslie! Leslie, look at what we did!"

"Crap on a punching bag," she says. She is looking at what they did, and what they did is turn all the scrap paper into confetti and throw it around the office, as well as over turn all the trash cans, make a decorative abstract mural out of squirted mustard, and build a fort out of some of her most precious binders. 

"No, come watch!" Ed spins his computer monitor around. "We made this video. Midwest Division Harlem Shake!"

"Oh, no." 

Ed nods in a way that makes her think of a jackhammer, which is probably what she needs to get through that thick skull of his. “We already have sixteen hits on YouTube.” 

"Take it down and clean up this mess," she orders, before locking herself safely in her own office and dialing downstairs to her husband’s desk. 

"Ed did  _what_?” says Ben. 

"I just don’t understand how an adult human can be more trouble than all three kids put together." 

—

"Leslie! Hi, Leslie!" 

"Ed," she says, blankly. She releases the little hands she’s holding, knowing her kids will run straight to their usual JJ’s booth, which JJ now keeps fully stocked with crayons and paper at all times. "I didn’t know you were still in town." 

"I got a job with Sweetums," he says proudly. "After you fired me. You know, I just couldn’t bear to leave Pawnee." 

"It’s the best town in America," she says, without thinking. 

"I’ve never fit in so well anywhere before." 

"Great, Ed. That’s great." 

He roots around in a leather bag she didn’t notice, and holds out a soda bottle. “Care to try our new Sweetums Clear Cola?” 


	26. Leslie/Ann, gross series-ending wish fulfillment fluff

She fires Ed, and in the aftermath, discovers that one of the things he did wrong—or actually, just didn’t do—was keep her abreast of the developments in creating the position of Associate Director of Public Health Initiatives and Administration, Midwest Region. 

She’s Leslie Knope, so even with Ed’s failures, she’s pretty well informed of the whole thing regardless. Except for the part where—as she finds out now—the national office has hired someone already. 

Nowhere in Ed’s horrific disorganized paperwork is there an indication of who this person might be, or when they’re starting. 

She calls the national office. But great as the National Parks Service is, it’s still a government bureaucracy, and her question gets bounced around for two weeks before someone informs her she already has the information. 

* 

"Oliver’s getting so big," she marvels, leaning over to look more closely at Ben’s iPad screen. "Look at him."

"Did Ann say what they were doing in D.C.?"

They flip through a few more pictures: Ann, Chris, and Oliver in front of the White House, under some cherry blossoms, at the Lincoln Memorial; a teary-eyed Chris gazing at the MLK statue; Ann pointing out a name on the Vietnam Memorial to Oliver. 

"Celebrating her finishing her master’s degree," Leslie says. She can’t help but feel a little responsible for Ann’s accomplishment; after all, she was the one who nudged Ann into the public health director’s job in Pawnee, years ago. And then Ann, beautiful matriarchal polar bear Ann, had decided being a stay-at-home mom wasn’t enough, and being a nurse wasn’t enough, and she’d gotten her master’s in public health. "I really need to finish that celebratory scrapbook. I want it waiting for her when she gets back home." 

The Perkins-Traegers beam at them from the steps of the Library of Congress, and Leslie scowls. 

"You know, the exhibit halls of the Library—" Ben starts. 

She shakes her head to cut him off. “Oliver’s getting so handsome, too.” Leslie throws a glance through the ceiling, to the second floor, where the triplets are (if not sleeping) at least quiet. “That kid really hit the genetic lottery. Do you think he’s better looking than our kids?” 

Ben turns off the iPad and raises an eyebrow. “Of course not.” 

"Not that it’s a competition."

"Even if it was, we’d win," Ben says. "We’ve got them outnumbered." 

*

Even with three toddlers squirming and occasionally fighting ( _debating_ , she tells herself) in the backseat, Leslie Knope remains observant of every tiny change in her neighborhood as she drives through. So it comes as a surprise to her when she comes home one night to find that the For Sale sign has abruptly disappeared from the house across the street. 

"I never saw anyone looking at it," she tells Ben at dinner. 

He shrugs. “They probably showed it while you were at work.” 

"I guess." She takes a moment to wipe a splotch of tomato sauce from the table. "It’s weird Martha wouldn’t have mentioned anything, though."

"We haven’t moved since I came back from Washington."

"We’re never moving," says Leslie, automatically. "We got engaged in this house. We can’t leave it."  

"Right. So how often do you need to talk to the realtor?" 

It’s a reasonable point. But there’s a funny little catch in Ben’s voice that makes her think her husband knows something she doesn’t. 

"Well, I hope the new neighbors are nice," she says. "I wonder when they’re moving in. I should bake them some cookies. Or a cake. Or both, maybe." 

Ben squeezes her leg. “Sure.” 

* 

She’s bent over a very important report about mosquito-spread diseases in songbird populations in western Kentucky when one of the interns taps on her office door and informs her the new person’s here. 

"Be right there," she says, without lifting her head. 

A few minutes later, there’s another tap at her office door and this time, it’s her husband’s voice that speaks. 

"Leslie?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Babe, you need to come say hello to the new person. Um, coincidentally, they’re also our new neighbors." 

She looks up and sees Ben holding the hand of a small child that isn’t theirs. 

"Hi, Auntie Leslie." 

"Oliver?" 

Ben nods, a grin spreading over his face.

Leslie Knope feels all the blood rush from her head even before she stands up. 

"No," she says, and Ben nods. "You knew. You knew and you didn’t tell me?" 

"Surprise, Leslie." It’s the most beautiful voice in the world and it’s coming from behind Ben and Leslie’s crying even before she makes it across six feet of office floor into her best friend’s arms. 

She can’t speak. 

"I couldn’t tell you I was applying," says Ann, who’s shaking a little herself, "because I knew you’d have something to say to Washington, and I didn’t want anyone to think I got the job because I was the regional director’s best friend." 

"Oh, Ann," Leslie sighs. "You beautiful sneaky blood-borne pathogen."

"Yeah, that should probably stop."

"It’s not going to stop." 

"I know." 


	27. Prompt: Ben and the triplets watch Star Wars

"What in the world," Leslie muttered. Ann snickered to herself. It was a disaster inside the house, an absolute disaster. All the relaxation from their girls’ spa day drained away, temporarily, until Ann remembered that this wasn’t her house and she didn’t have to clean up. She’d help, of course, but at least it wasn’t her house… 

"Is this a fort?" she asked. 

Leslie shook her head. “I think it’s a Millennium Falcon. Ben? Kids? We’re back!”

A horrible strangled noise came from upstairs, and both Leslie and Ann dropped their purses and bolted. They found everyone in the guest room, which was also an absolute disaster, which was unfortunate because Ann was staying in it and she probably would have to clean that up. 

It had been a long time since Ann had seen  _Star Wars_ , but she was able to identify a tiny Leia. One of Leslie’s boys—she couldn’t tell which—was wrapped in gold tinfoil, and the other had a blue and white trash can over his head. Oliver was wearing blue pants and Leslie’s snow boots, which Ann supposed made him Harrison Ford. 

"Oh, good," said Ben, as soon as he saw them. He was dressed as the old guy in the bathrobe. "I can’t get Hillary’s hair right. Can you fix it? We had to do paper cinnamon buns." 

"What was that noise?" Leslie demanded, ignoring the fact that two of her children had been turned into robots. Ann supposed it happened fairly often. Apparently everyone knew that the Knope-Wyatts had the best dress-up collection of any house in the neighborhood. 

"That was me!" said Chris, popping up from behind the bed with one of Leslie’s wigs draped over his face. "I’m Chewbacca." 

"Mommy," said Oliver, shoving something green into Ann’s hand, "here. You can be Yoda." 

Ann looked over at Leslie, who grinned and raised her eyebrows. “The most beautiful Jedi master in the galaxy, you will be.” 


	28. Harvest Festival 2014

"I can’t ride the Ferris wheel this year," Leslie grumbled. Here they were, mid-sunset—the perfect time of day—and she couldn’t ride her favorite ride. "No Ferris wheel, no Tilt-A-Whirl, I’m supposed to be avoiding too much candy…I can have one candy apple, though, right? It’s fruit." 

"One candy apple is probably fine," Ben agreed. 

"And we’ll just walk around until my feet get too swollen. This is going to be the least exciting Harvest Festival ever." 

"That’s probably a good thing," Ben said, squeezing her hand. "Just promise me one thing, okay? Remember you don’t work for the Parks department anymore. If something goes wrong—"

"I know, I know. It’s not my job to fix it." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as they walked through the festival entrance. "It’s always going to feel like my job to fix it, though." 

"I know." 

They passed southern Indiana’s current favorite miniature horse, but didn’t stop. He was a pale imitation of greatness, Tiny Tim was. 

"I wish our kids could’ve met Li’l Sebastian," Leslie said. Ben nodded. 

They waved at April, who was telling ghost stories to a group of Pawnee Rangers. April scowled at them. Leslie’s heart swelled anyway. They were here, after all, at the Harvest Festival, and her beautiful protege was really getting into the spirit of things, even if she was still pretending not to. Leslie knew how much work April had done on this year’s Festival. She’d snuck down to the first floor, broken into the Parks department, and poked through all the plans late one night. 

"Did we ruin the mood?" Ben wondered. "It’s not even close to Halloween yet." 

April raised her voice. “And then all the babies grew up to be performance artists. Performance artists who hated science fiction and breakfast food.” 

"We love you too, April," Leslie called back. "Babe, let’s go get lost in the corn maze before my feet start hurting more." 

"Or," said Ben, tugging her gently in another direction, "we could sit down for a while." 

"We can sit in the middle of the corn maze. With candy apples." 

She followed her husband anyway, through the crowds, until they got to the very edge of the Festival grounds. 

"Babe, there’s no one here." 

Ben shook his head, cocked an eyebrow, and snapped his fingers. When nothing happened, he said “Sorry” to her and yelled “Hey!” into the darkness. She heard some jangling, and a moment later, a horse-drawn wagon appeared. 

"Private hayride," Ben explained, though that wasn’t really necessary. 

"You did this?" she asked. "There wasn’t supposed to be a hayride this year."

"I kept those plans locked in the safe in my office. Do you know how hard it is to keep a secret from you?" He studied her closely for a moment. "Damn it, Leslie, I was hoping you’d make the face." 

She was already trying to climb in the wagon, without much success. “Oof. A little help, here. I think I’m bigger than the horse.” 

"Okay. Careful. There’s a step stool somewhere." With some difficulty, they got her into the wagon. Ben climbed in after her, and they leaned back against a bale of hay, one of Ben’s arms around her shoulder, his other hand resting lightly on her belly. Their driver clucked twice, and the horse trundled slowly into motion. 

"Not too bumpy, right?" 

"Nope," said Leslie. She took a deep breath, filling her nostrils with dusty hay and sweaty horse and the crisp starch of Ben’s shirt. Hay prickled her backside. Her feet throbbed a little less. The stars were just beginning to show. "This is perfect." 


	29. Mac and Cheese Pizza 2

"I don’t understand." Ben’s voice was strained, almost shaky. "I thought this was a great idea." 

"Well," said Leslie, surveying the damage, "they are my kids, I guess." 

"We don’t have enough paper towels for this."

"I just bought a twelve-pack of paper towels."

"I don’t think that’s enough paper towels," said Ben. He couldn’t even focus on one particular place, not now. Where was he supposed to start? There were crumbs on the floor and noodles pasted to the wall and cheese drips on the furniture and a trail of tomato sauce that started on one kitchen wall and continued into the hallway. And—perhaps most inexplicably—there was a basil leaf stuck to the fridge. Not even with a magnet; it was just stuck there. 

"It’ll be okay, babe." 

"Even when you got ridiculously excited about this—" 

Leslie snickered. “Excited or not, I have fine motor skills.”

Ben groaned. 

"I don’t want to say I told you so," she said, "but I did tell you so. Mac and cheese pizza is mac and cheese that’s harder to eat." She gave her husband a reassuring pat on the butt, and grimaced when her hand came away covered in bread crumbs. 

"It was supposed to make mac and cheese into a finger food that was  _easier_ to eat.” Ben thought for a moment. “Hey. Did you notice that the worst of it looks like it was the mac and cheese falling off the top of the pizza?” 

"Hmm?"

"Leslie, I’ve got it."

"Got what?" 

"The answer. I just need to put another crust on top of the pizza, to hold in the macaroni."

"No!" Leslie shrieked. "Ben, don’t you  _dare_ feed our children mac and cheese calzones.” 


	30. Prompt: College party meeting AU

Ben felt something grab his elbow, and skidded to a halt. Unfortunately, the red Solo cup in his hand, which he’d been taking to the trash, wasn’t completely empty. A green, sticky liquid sloshed onto his foot. Midori? Midori and Sprite? Gross. He made a face at his shoe. 

"Dude," said his very not-sober roommate, "you’ve got to take one for the team." 

"I’m sorry?"

"I’m trying to hook up with Chrissie over there—" Josh pointed at a tall brunette in the corner, one Ben didn’t know but had definitely been eyeing— "and her friend is being a buzzkill. Blondie. The little one. You have to do something. Take her away. I’ll owe you."  

Ben had not noticed blondie before. She was tiny, and very blonde indeed, and she was waving some sort of laminated card in Chrissie’s face. 

"What’s she doing?"

"It’s a sobriety chart," groaned Josh. "Does she think she’s someone’s mom?" 

Ben shook his head. “Is she—is she wearing a pantsuit?”

"Yeah. I don’t know how the fuck she got in here, but will you just—I need an opening, man." 

"I need another drink before I go over there," Ben muttered, realizing only when Josh clapped him on the back that he had agreed to wingman duties. Again. 

"You’re the best," said Josh. "I owe you. For serious." 

"Sure," Ben agreed. He knew full well that the next time this happened, at a bar or a house party or a basketball game or wherever, Josh would conveniently forget about the debt and put him right back on wingman duty. 

He grabbed a couple of beers and headed over to the blonde, trying to think of a good opening line. Nothing was coming to mind. 

She saved him the trouble, though. “What do you want?” 

"Nothing," he sputtered, taking an automatic step back. "I just—I mean—here." He held out one of the cans, which she eyed suspiciously, scrunching her nose as though it, or maybe him, smelled bad. 

"What’s that?" 

"It’s a beer," he said. "You look like you could use a beer." 

She shook her head. “I’m the designated driver.” 

"You drove?" They were like one block off campus. 

"No, but someone might need a driver." 

"Do you even know anybody here with a car?" He had the impression she didn’t know a lot of people here. Behind her, Chrissie sidled away, in the exact opposite direction of Josh. 

"No." 

He shook his head. “So take the beer.” 

"But—"

"You don’t want to be alone in a car with drunk people you’ve never met," he reasoned, not really expecting it to work. But she bit her lip and looked at him, straight in the eye, for a good long minute. (Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.) Then she tucked the laminated card back in her purse and held out her hand for the can. "It’s still sealed," Ben said. "I’m not trying to roofie you." 

"I know." 

Just before he released the can, their fingers brushed. 

"What’s with the—" he started, gesturing at her pantsuit, right as she said "I really like your shirt." 

Ben coughed once. 

"I’m Leslie." 

"Ben." 

He waited for her to initiate a handshake, but instead, she popped the beer open and took a sip. “You look familiar,” she said. 

"Nope," Ben said quickly. The best way to avoid an awkward Ice Town situation was to head it off at the pass. It was the very first thing he’d learned at college. "I mean. I get that a lot. One of those faces."  _  
_

"I don’t think so." She took another sip of beer, and scrunched her nose again. "Have we met?"

"Not that I know of." He contemplated chugging the rest of his own beer, but decided against it. 

"Well, anyway," she said, turning away, "thanks for the beer." 

"Oh. You—" 

"I’m not stupid, Ben. I know you only came over here because your friend is trying to pick up my friend." She tilted her head at a corner of the room. Ben looked over to see that Josh was, indeed, putting some kind of terrible move on the tall brunette. "He told you to distract me, right?" 

"I…no?" If that was the truth, which it was, then why—Ben wondered—why was there a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach?

"I’m just gonna dance, okay?" She swiveled herself right out of the conversation, turning her back to him, and began to bounce up and down. 

He watched her for a few moments. Her curls, rapidly unraveling in the heat and humidity of the party, brushed over her shoulders as she jumped. Every bounce made her jacket ride up and down, too, the back vent…flap…thing, whatever it was, revealing slim round hips. He let his eyes travel further downward, expecting to find sensible heels at the end of her pinstripe pants. 

Instead, he saw bright red Converse. 

He wasn’t drunk enough to be hitting on a girl. 

He went in anyway. 


	31. Prompt: First time all three triplets are asleep at once

"Right there," Leslie whispered. "One-third of the future Supreme Court, and they’re asleep in our house."

"Thank God. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired." 

"Me either." 

"We’re still keeping the boys straight, right?" It was a worry, Ben thought, until they learned their own names. They weren’t  _technically_  identical, but they did look an awful lot alike. 

Leslie nodded. “We’ve been perfect so far.” 

"I just worry. Are there, like, legal implications down the road, if we screw this up?" 

"We’re not going to screw this up," Leslie insisted. "One, we’re careful, and two, it’s easy to tell them apart. You just have to take their diapers off. Teddy got your butt." 

Ben shook his head. “I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s weird.” 

"What? All three of them got your eyes. That’s not weird." 

"All babies have someone’s eyes. The butt thing is weird." 

"Joseph also has a mole on his left hip." 

"I know that," Ben said. He was pretty sure he’d memorized every inch of all three tiny, noisy, perfect alien invaders. 

The yellow-wrapped baby let out a muted wail. 

"Crap on a diaper genie," muttered Leslie. "Did we just wake up Abby?" 

"Let’s get out of here before they’re all up." 

"Let’s put on one of the white noise things." 

"Not Chris’s whale sounds again." It might have worked for Oliver, but even if it was the most soporific mp3 in history, Ben couldn’t bear the thought of listening to mating humpbacks one more time. 

"Maya Angelou audiobook?" 

"Is that really white noise?" 

Leslie shrugged. “Her voice is soothing.” 

"I wish," Ben whispered, "that none of them had inherited your sleep genes." 

"Look at it this way," Leslie said, as they backed out of the room, under cover of poetry. "You’ll be grateful for that when they’re teenagers." 


	32. End of Leslie's maternity leave

Ben popped his head (and all three kids) in around ten o’clock, just to check in. “How’s it going up here?” he asked, although clearly things were going just fine. Leslie kissed each triplet in turn, and then Ben. 

"Great! It’s almost like I never left. I just have all this junk mail to go through." 

"You barely did leave." 

"I was gone for an entire month, Ben!"

"Yeah. That’s the bare minimum of time." 

"I’m just glad we were able to keep that back conference room open," Leslie said. "It’s going to make a great nursery." 

"You’re not too tired? Not overdoing things?" 

"Nope." 

"I figured." 

"I mean, I’ve missed them a lot this morning, but god, I was going crazy in the house all the time," Leslie said. 

"I know. I’ve been cleaning up after your craft projects." 

"You have to admit the crib-sized family history quilts turned out well." 

"They did," Ben said. "Um, they are machine washable, right? Because there was an incident with some spit-up." 

"They should be fine. Just run them on cold and don’t use bleach." 

"Hon, I know how to do the laundry." 

"I know you do," she said. "You’re good at a lot of things."

"So are you," Ben told her. "But staying at home all the time is not one of them." 

"No, it’s not," she agreed. "We’re still on for lunch, right?" 

"We’ll be here at one with JJ’s finest." 

"God, I love you so much," Leslie said, giving him a quick butt squeeze. "Okay. I gotta get back to work. Enjoy your first day of paternity leave." 

"Will do." Ben did a quick check to make sure all three kids were still alive (they were) and began maneuvering towards the door. "Next stop, Parks department. I think Tom wants to critique the kids’ wardrobe choices." 

Leslie made a face. “Is it wrong if I hope someone spits up on him?” 

"Nah," said Ben. "I was kind of hoping for a well-timed poopy diaper." 


	33. Disney World!

"Where are we going to go next?" Andy asked, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. "Dumbo? The mine train again?" He gasped. "Peter Pan! Let’s do Peter Pan." 

Ben checked his phone app and grimaced. “The line’s too long. Why is that line always so long?”

"I want to meet Rapunzel," said Teddy.

"Buzz Lightyear again," said Hillary, giving her father a look. 

Joseph remained quiet. He had been quiet since he’d thrown up on the teacups an hour ago.  

"Leslie, I’m hungry. Can I have ice cream?" 

"You can use the snack on your meal plan—"

Andy shook his head. “I already got a frozen lemonade. And a pretzel. Can I have ice cream?”

"Andy, I’m not  _your_  mom. If you want to buy an ice cream, buy an ice cream.” 

Ben swung around, suddenly, and began scanning the crowds. “Joseph? Leslie, where’s Joseph?” 

"Crap on a Tigger tail." She stood on her tiptoes, trying to pick out a little plaid shirt and R2-D2 ears through the mass of strollers. The problem was, every four-year-old boy in Fantasyland was dressed that way. 

"Wait," said Ben, a bit more calmly. "I see him. He’s with April." 

April had found a small shady spot under a tree, and there she sat with Joseph on her lap, stroking his back. Joseph, meanwhile, was patting her on the knee. 

"Some of the rides are pretty scary, huh?" she said. "But they’re only rides. They’re not real." 

Joseph nodded solemnly. 

"Hey. How about this? I’ll stay with you if they want to go on the teacups again, and you stay with me if they want to go on It’s A Small World. Deal?" 

Joseph stuck out a tiny hand. “Deal,” he said. 

"Deal." 

"Everyone okay over here?" asked Leslie. 

April shook her head. “How dare you,” she said, jerking her head back at the ride entrance. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.” 

"It’s the happiest place on earth," Leslie told her. 

"No, it’s not. It’s nightmare fuel." 

"Babe, that was awesome," said Andy, bouncing over. "C’mon. Sing with me. It’s a world of laughter—" 

"Stop," moaned April. 

Joseph helpfully clapped his hands over April’s Jack Skellington mouse ears. 

"Thanks, kid." 


	34. Prompt: "intense fluff"

Leslie’s alarm went off at 2:31 in the morning, exactly as she’d intended. She shut it off as soon as Ben sat up and blinked sleepily. She was already sitting up, watching her husband closely. She hadn’t been asleep at all. 

"I’ll get it," he muttered. 

"Babe." 

"Mm?" 

"It’s not the doorbell." 

"Know that. It’s bottles, it—wait." He blinked, harder, and looked at the bedside clock. "It’s not feeding time." 

"Nope," Leslie said, closing her fingers around his wrist.

"Then why…" He sighed. "Damn it, Leslie, I was asleep." 

"I know. I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t wake you up unless it was very important." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. 

He slid back onto the pillow. “I’m really tired.” 

"I know. But—" 

"We haven’t slept through the night in six weeks." 

"Exactly," she said, smiling broadly. "It’s been  _exactly_  six weeks. The kids came out at 2:31, remember?” 

Ben yawned. “I’m not so tired that I don’t remember the birth of our children.” 

"Or technically, their arrival via c-section." 

"Leslie, can I go back to sleep? We can have a six-week birthday party in the morning, when they wake up." 

Leslie huffed, took a breath to calm herself, and rolled over, pinning Ben to the mattress, a move she hadn’t been able to make since early in her third trimester. It was still awkward. Her body wasn’t even close to being back to normal (and maybe it never would be, but she tried not to think about that right now) and her center of gravity was somewhere other than she’d been expecting. “I don’t want them awake,” she whispered. “Not for this.” 

"You are on top of me," Ben stated. 

She kissed him, hard. As she’d suspected, he instinctively pulled her closer. 

"What is happening?" 

She’d kissed him enough times when he was asleep to know what was happening. “We’re making out,” she said. 

"Okay." 

"And then we’re going to have sex." 

Ben sat up so rapidly that his forehead banged into hers. 

"Ow!" she screeched, before automatically shushing herself. "Careful!"

"Sorry." 

"The last thing we need is to wake them up. Or concussions. We don’t need concussions either." 

"You just said we’re going to have sex," he said. 

"We are!" 

"It’s too soon." 

"Dr. Saperstein said to wait six weeks after the c-section. It’s been six weeks. It’s been  _exactly_  six weeks. It was six weeks at 2:31.” 

"You set an alarm," Ben stated. He looked nervous, but she had him. She knew she had him. "You set an alarm for this and—and you’re mostly naked." 

It was about time he noticed that, she thought. He really must have been tired. 

"Yeah, unfortunately, I think the nursing bra is gonna have to stay on. But I feel good. Everything else should be good to go." 

Ben put his hands around her waist, dropped his lips to her collarbone, and sent a trail of soft kisses down her skin, over her stretch marks, to the horizontal pink scar across her abdomen. 


	35. Chapter 35

**(The year is 2026)**

Sonia isn’t sure what to expect from her first school dance, exactly. 

That’s not true. She has some very definite expectations. She expects her mom will insist on taking time out of her gubernatorial campaign so that they can go shopping. She expects she’ll get to wear especially shiny lip gloss. She expects her father to volunteer to chaperone, and she expects a whole host of embarrassing things to come with that, like the possibility of Congressional aides or, even worse, the possibility of him dancing. She expects pictures, ten hundred thousand million billion pictures, and a scrapbook to follow. And she expects at least one of her brothers will do something asinine. That’s her new word, asinine. It’s proving useful. 

She isn’t sure whether she should expect a boy to ask her to the dance, or (the less ambitious option) whether she’ll get asked to dance if she goes on without a date.

( _You are eleven_ , says the father in her head. _You’re not—there’s no need—no, honey, we trust you completely. We do._ She knows they do.)

She’s usually pretty confident; she knows how to be, and she has a dual set of badges, Girl Scouts and Pawnee Goddesses, to prove it. Still, as the dance approaches and every boy she knows, including her brothers, continues to not acknowledge its impending arrival, a little doubt starts to creep in. Just at the edges. 

Her mom is on the road in Indiana, and while Sonia knows she’ll drop anything to take a call if it’s at all feasible, she doesn’t want her mom’s advice right now. She already knows what that advice will be: _if there’s a boy you want to go with, just ask him! If there’s not, just go have fun with your girlfriends!_

She calls her favorite honorary aunt instead. 

"Ew," says April, after Sonia’s explained the situation. "No. Why would you even want to go?" 

Somewhere in the background, Sonia hears a comforting crash. She giggles. 

"Andy, I’m going out, okay?" she yells. Half an hour later, she’s at the door, baby Jill in tow. "So what’s the plan, kid?" 

Sonia holds up a plan, written in her neatest cursive, with her best blue pen. 

April shakes her head without reading. “Nope. Tear it up. The secret to surviving school dances is to not be prepared.” 

"Really?" 

"The key is to improvise." 

Sonia nods, and holds up her pen, prepared to take notes. 

"Sometimes you’re way too much like your parents," April groans. "You know they both definitely embarrassed themselves at every single school dance they ever went to, right?"


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the time jump.

“Ann Perkins.”

“Mmm?” They’re on the couch, all three of them, Oliver sleeping soundly in her arms. So far Oliver has proven to be a sound, regular sleeper—an active sleeper, to be sure, but a sound one. For this, Ann is profoundly grateful.

Chris stops examining Oliver’s feet (literally the most perfect feet a baby has ever had, though whether they are more perfect for distance running, rock climbing, or gymnastics has yet to be determined) and clasps his hands together.

“I know this is a big decision, but—”

“Oh, no. Not now.”

“Fair enough,” Chris agrees. “Although I have not yet stated my proposal.”

“Yeah. Proposal. We agreed we didn’t need to get married.”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t going to make that kind of proposal.”

“Oh.” Ann sneaks a glance at the clock. It’s not herbal smoothie time, thank god, and it’s a little late to start watching a movie, both of which tend to fall under Chris’s definition of big decision.

“The five months that Oliver Perkins-Traeger have been alive have been some of the most fascinating months I’ve ever had. He is absolutely perfect.”

Oliver Perkins-Traeger chooses this moment to defecate, horribly and noisily.

“Right,” Ann says, shifting Oliver’s weight so she’s balanced enough to stand up. They only have so long before the organic unbleached cotton cloth diaper starts leaking.

“How would you feel about trying for a second Oliver? Not literally a second Oliver. But a second child.”

In response, Ann holds the baby out to his father, who immediately bounces up and disappears to the nursery. She gives them a head start.

“You know it’s not a competition,” Ann says a few moments later. She’s leaning against the nursery door frame, watching. Chris is—has been, will continue to be—an excellent father. She knows this, consciously and unconsciously.

“A competition?” Chris powders with a flourish, twists the fresh diaper closed with a flourish, pins it with a flourish. “With whom are we competing?”

“Just because Leslie and Ben are having three doesn’t mean we have to have three.”

“Of course not.” He turns to her, gestures for her to come closer, which she does. Together, they examine their son, half-asleep on his changing table, stirring slightly.

Of course not three. But two, perhaps.

“It’s just,” Chris says, his voice nearly breaking, “that this is the most beautiful, perfect…”

He keeps going, though Ann’s anti-hyperbole mental filter switches on automatically and doesn’t turn off until she hears her own name again.

“…up to you, Ann Perkins. Since it is, after all, your body.”

“I liked being pregnant. Mostly.”

“You were positively radiant. Also, the size of a house. But radiant.”

She swats him. “I wasn’t that big.”

“No, you were not. And pregnancy is a miracle.”

“Right.” Ann’s spent too many years in nursing to believe that unilaterally, but she gets what he means.

“Anyway, I certainly don’t think this is a decision to be made immediately. But it did take us some time to conceive Oliver. But that doesn’t mean—”

“No.” Somehow, she thinks, she’s always known she would want a second child. Not three, though. Definitely not three. “I think we should. Or, I mean, we should just…see what happens.”

“Ann Perkins.”

“Chris Traeger.” She lets out a breath, one that feels particularly contented. “I hereby give you permission to put extra folic acid in my next herbal smoothie.”

“Oh, I’ve been doing that all along. It’s not just a prenatal vitamin.”

“Right.”

Chris picks up the baby. “I think it’s time to put this little fellow to bed.”

She nods, and leaves him to it, wandering into their own bedroom, noting depressions still in the carpet from when Oliver’s crib was in here. She brushes her teeth, climbs into bed, switches on the baby monitor…switches off the baby monitor, because Chris is singing a lullaby, and while Chris can do many things, carrying a tune is not one of them.

“If this happens,” she says, when Chris appears in the bedroom (she switches the baby monitor back on), “I’m going to hope for a girl this time.”

“A girl!” Chris says, as though having one of each is a revolutionary idea. “Well, that would be delightful.”

“Yep.”

“Another boy would also be delightful.”

“Yep,” Ann agrees.

As it happens, they don’t start trying that night.

In the morning, she texts Leslie. Leslie immediately video messages her back, sobbing hysterically about the horrors and terrors of pregnancy. Amidst all the declarations of never doing this again, how could you consider it and my toes are already the size of hot dogs, Ann, she hears happiness. Probably.

She hopes, if it happens, that it’s a girl. And that there’s only one of her.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Rule 63

Leslie reached for the wine bottle, and poured herself another glass. A full glass. All the way up to the top. She knew you weren’t supposed to drink wine that way, but it wasn’t like filling the glass half full made a difference in the taste. 

"I’m sorry, Leslie. You’re apologizing to me for what, now?" 

"For being confusing and weird!" 

"I’m not sure what’s confusing and weird." 

"It’s all confusing and weird."

"I might agree, if you actually told me what was going on." 

She swallowed the gulp of wine she’d just taken, hoping the nice warm fuzzies would appear right away and help untangle her thoughts. When they didn’t, she decided to plow ahead anyway. 

"So you’re dating Chris, and that’s great, but—well, no, that’s not really related. Ann, do you remember when they first got here, and I really hated Brenna?" 

She thought she saw Ann struggle not to roll her eyes. “It would be hard not to.” 

"And now we’re kind of friends?"

"Right." 

"Well…" 

The confusing part was not Brenna herself. Leslie liked to think of herself as open-minded, and Brenna was clearly a catch. She was smart and supportive, like Ann was, but a little bit drier. She was a hard worker. She had great hair, a shortish style that Leslie had tried for herself once. That was when she’d come out looking like Angela Lansbury. On Brenna, it looked sophisticated. She had a great  _butt_ , and though her outfits tended towards snug slacks and snugger pencil skirts, Leslie wasn’t sure Brenna had any idea how great her butt was. 

"Leslie?" asked Ann, interrupting her train of thought. 

"I made out with a girl in college, once." The experience had been unsatisfactory. 

"What does that have to do with anything?" 

Leslie sighed, and reached for one of the cookies Ann had been kind enough to set out. 

She was heterosexual. She had always been heterosexual. And if she was going to have feelings for a woman,  _why wasn’t she having them for Ann?_


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another high school AU

"Wait,” she said, though it pained her to do so. “It’s almost time for announcements. We have to go back.” She wasn’t sure how long it would take them to get from the abandoned history classroom, where they were now, to the gym, where the rest of the school was. She’d intended to note how long it had taken them to make the trip from gym to classroom, but she’d been…distracted.

Ben stopped moving, but left his hand where it was. It was on top of her breast, with his pinky finger just barely inside the bodice of her satin dress.

“I thought you didn’t care about homecoming queen.”

“I don’t. I mean, I don’t care about me being homecoming queen. I do care about Ann being homecoming queen. I can’t miss her getting crowned.”

She watched the corner of Ben’s mouth twitch. The twitch was a little more noticeable than it ought to have been; it took her a moment to realize that this was because some of her lipstick had transferred over. Crap on a Kleenex. She didn’t have a Kleenex.

Ben groaned. “Just…a little longer.” His pinky finger traced a short, soft line, back and forth. For some reason, that made her hips tingle.

“Okay, fine, but just a couple of—oh.”

He chuckled into the kiss, and god, she loved it when he did that. She reached her hands for the back of his head, pulling him closer. That was usually Ben’s move, cradling her like that, but he wasn’t allowed to do it tonight—Ann had spent too long making her hair perfect. It was a good move,she thought. She should steal Ben’s moves more often.

As if he was reading her thoughts, Ben stole one of her moves then, sliding the hand that wasn’t on her breast down her body until it was cupping her butt. His fingers squeezed ever so slightly.

Turnabout, Leslie decided (just as they crashed inelegantly into a large, outdated globe) was very much fair play.

The globe hit the floor with a resounding thud, startling Ben upright.

“Relax,” Leslie said. “No one’s around to hear us.”

Ben shook his head as though clearing water from his ears.

“We should go back,” she said, reluctantly. He nodded and laced his fingers into hers.

This time, she counted the seconds. Forty-eight seconds from the time they left the history classroom to the side door of the gym, and another sixteen seconds to shove their way through the crowds, so that Leslie could be front and center to watch her beautiful awkward flamingo of a best friend…

“Lose to Joan Callamezzo?” Leslie spat. “The vote must have been rigged. I demand a recount.”

Ben, who could see over more of the crowd than she could, muttered “I don’t think Ann’s upset.”

“Of course she’s upset. She was robbed. She—”

“Is definitely making out with Chris in the corner by the coat check.”

“Oh.” Leslie stood on her tiptoes, trying to see. Since she was already wearing heels, it didn’t make much of a difference. “Are you sure?”

Ben nodded slowly. “I’m very sure. I’m—” He turned back to her, making a truly awful face. “I’m not going to look at that anymore.”

She made the executive decision that Ben should look at her instead, and make out with her more, and possibly take her back to the empty classroom. Or maybe to JJ’s. But later. First—well, they were back in the gym, and the band had started playing again, so—

“Dance with me, babe.”

He tried. It didn’t go well, but he tried.

“I can’t dance either,” Leslie said reassuringly. “It’s okay! Just have fun.”

“I am having fun.”

She thought he meant it, too, right up until her aggressive high-speed waltz-based pattern sent them over a loose floorboard. Ben, who was going backwards, wiped out completely.

“Can we get out of here now?” he asked, as Leslie crouched down beside him.

She nodded, and held out a hand, which Ben took. But he didn’t pull himself up right away.

“What?”

He pulled her closer and whispered in her ear.

“Come on,” Leslie said, tugging on Ben’s arm. “You and me. Backseat of my car. Now.”


End file.
